Hold Hands and Stick Together
by selori
Summary: "You can learn many things from children. How much patience you have, for instance." Franklin P. Jones Clint and Coulson are on the run from SHIELD, trying to give de-aged Phil a normal childhood. But if they really had normal lives? Phil would be looking at his 50th birthday and wondering if a red convertible was just a bit... on the nose. Part 2 of the "Someone Today" series.
1. Chapter 1

Clint was not a fan of waiting until the other shoe had dropped to make plans. It was why he had started to collude with JARVIS the same day Coulson was transformed into a four-year-old. He had set some plans in motion that day, but some details would, OK, maybe not "require" but certainly "be the better for" Coulson's input.

Contingency planning was really Coulson's strong suit, but Clint had a lot of experience with worst case scenarios becoming realities. So when Coulson was incarcerated "for his own good, really, just trust us" at SHIELD HQ, Clint's brain went into survive / escape mode. Despite all SHIELD's assurances that Coulson was a valued and respected high-ranking member of the agency and, really, what was the worst that could happen?

"Thirty-eight," Coulson said encouragingly into Clint's ear.

Well, OK, to be fair, human experimentation hadn't happened, and Coulson hadn't been kidnapped by one of SHIELD's enemies to be tortured for information.

"Thanks, sir," Clint panted as he came back to a neutral position. He paused there a moment, arms extended straight up to where he gripped the towels hanging from the pull-up bar. "What about-" He clenched the towels tight in each hand as he raised himself to a full pull-up, forehead even with the bar. "-William, sir?" he asked on the exhale.

However, the other things that hadn't happened? Uh, basic human rights and freedoms? Hello? Any of this ringing a bell? Clint was pretty sure it was Not OK to confine a four-year-old to a few rooms inside a bureaucratic office building and not let him see the sun, much less grass, trees, or even dirt, for weeks on end.

"Thirty-nine." Coulson squeezed his legs tighter where they wrapped around Clint's waist, ankles barely reaching far enough to lock together. "No," he said firmly.

Clint adjusted his hold on the towels. The extra 40 pounds of four-year-old Coulson attached to his belly was definitely a game changer. "Peter?"

Coulson had slumped slightly, but Clint noted with approval that the top of his head was still blocking the security camera's view of Clint's mouth. Having their discussions in the gym was the best way he'd found to circumvent SHIELD's omnipresent monitoring system. "Forty," Coulson said. "And no."

What he noted _without_ approval, though, was that Coulson was getting pasty living inside the SHIELD building. The freckles that had dotted his round baby cheeks when he was first transformed had faded away. The fluorescent lighting did no one's complexion any favors, but the bluish shadows under Coulson's eyes were new and stood out on his increasingly pale face. It wasn't lack of sleep. Clint could attest to that first hand because he was _there_ for most of Coulson's sleep cycles.

As Clint began another towel pull-up, and before he could suggest another name for Coulson's cover identity, Coulson preempted him. "Before you ask, no 'Richard', either."

"Aw, but sir," Clint huffed, grinning, "just think: this could be your only chance to be Dick Johnson."

"Forty-one," Coulson said sternly. "And you're not nearly as funny as you think you are." His light tenor voice was serious, but Clint thought he saw a glint in his eyes that would have been suppressed humor in his older self.

"Sure I am, sir," he said.

"Forty-two," Coulson said. "You think I want to be stuck with a joke name for the foreseeable future? Fine. How about 'Francis', then? You're not using it."

"Low blow, sir," he said and released one towel so he could quickly tickle Phil's side.

Phil giggled for a moment, then released his hold around Clint and dropped to the floor. He fixed Clint with as stern a look as he could muster. Despite the fact that when Clint hung from the towel Coulson's head came up to Clint's knees, it was still pretty fierce.

"Just for that, Agent, finish the set one-handed."

Clint contemplated his grip on the remaining towel and the fatigue in his muscles, even though he was suddenly carrying 40 pounds less. "Yes, sir."

In the end, Clint asked JARVIS to create an identity for James Martin, Sr., recently widowed, and James Martin, Jr., age four. The cover JARVIS made was so thorough, so complete, and so seamless that Clint promised himself that he would never go back to the streets for IDs again. Of course, his next thought had him worrying about what would happen if JARVIS ever went all SkyNet on them, but that was a concern for another day.

The bright and shiny new identity in his hands let Clint contact Coulson's potential school as soon as JARVIS finished the background search on the local schools' principals. And the administrators. And the teachers. And nurses. And the kindergarten parents, for the love of Pete. Really, JARVIS' thoroughness was making Clint wonder if he had ever been paranoid _enough_ in his years with a solo career. His vetting of the schools themselves - their history, academic record, complaints against them, financial standing, and so forth - was a thing of beauty.

"JARVIS, my man, if you're ever bored with Stark, you should come work for the research department at SHIELD. We'd keep you in all the electrons and bandwidth you could handle."

"_That is very kind, Agent Barton_," the AI replied, "_but I assure you that there is more than enough to keep me occupied at Stark Industries_."

"Whatever, just so you know." Clint looked at the reports JARVIS had pulled together for him. "So, you like this one, huh, JARVIS?" He tapped the school at the top of the list with a callused forefinger.

"_Hope Lutheran School had the best academic record and the best results from the background checks, sir_," the AI replied. "And the best overall long-term results for its students, judging by their lives and careers for the past 58 years."

"Not gonna lie," Clint said, "I was kinda hopin' for St. Sebastian's to come out on top here. Patron saint of archers, and all. Seemed like it might've been meant to be or something."

"_It would indeed have seemed serendipitous, sir, but if I may_..." JARVIS inserted one of those pauses that marked him as A Really Very Intelligent System, and then continued gently. "_Neither you nor Agent Coulson have identified as Catholic, and that difference might set you apart from the other students and parents. You have expressed your desire to 'fly under the radar'. Anything that makes you stand out would work against that goal_."

Clint sighed. "Good points, as always, J. Shoot me the contact numbers for Hope Lutheran, OK?"

Clint liked Karen Williams, Coulson's prospective school's principal. At least, he liked what JARVIS had found out about her on his background check. He liked her enough that it gave him a pang to gaslight her, but it was for Coulson's security. His initial phone call to Hope Lutheran School had a dual purpose: it established a timeline that would conflict with his and Coulson's eventual escape from SHIELD, and it put the principal on an awkward footing, letting him benefit the most from her discomfort.

"Mrs. Williams? Thank you for taking my call, though I admit I had expected to hear from you sooner."

"I'm sorry, Mr.," she paused as if consulting a note, "Mr. Martin? I don't think I had a request to call you?" Her rising tone made the statement an invitation to provide her with more information.

"But I- Hmm," Clint said in a baffled voice. "That's really strange. I sent you the email almost two weeks ago." It was a lie, but it was a good one. He'd sent the email - OK, well, JARVIS had - a few minutes ago, but through JARVIS' eldritch powers, the message from James Martin, Sr., dated two weeks previous, was not only present in Karen Williams' email inbox, it was also flagged as "read." Clint was never, _ever_ ticking JARVIS off. "It would be from JamesMartinWrites, all one word?"

"I'm sorry, I-" She stopped for a moment. "Oh. Oh, dear. My goodness. Mr. Martin, I don't know what to say, I have your email right here. It must have gotten lost in the shuffle somehow. I apologize." She took a breath. "How can I help you today?"

"Well, I'm looking to enroll my son in kindergarten in a few weeks..."

After initially assigning him to be Coulson's bodyguard and caretaker 24-7, SHIELD suddenly decided that Hawkeye was needed for a variety of missions elsewhere. He was just thankful they hadn't sent him to Kuala Lumpur or on a long-term undercover mission. Instead, he drew a variety of short assignments within a short plane ride of "home." It did, however, give him an excuse to spend more than a few hours outside of SHIELD HQ and off of their radar.

Clint first visited Hope Lutheran School in Lewisville, PA, two weeks after his _Gaslight_ email and phone call combination to the principal. Between JARVIS' incredibly thorough background checks and his relentless collation of the data available on the local area schools, they might have made the most informed school choice ever. Still, Clint was nervous when he actually came to visit.

He had spoken to Karen Williams on the phone several times by then, and the two of them were clear that "Mr. Martin", widowed so recently that he was still wearing his ring, was teetering on the brink of enrolling "James Martin, Jr." in kindergarten. But it was one thing to read the intel on paper (or on StarkPad, as it usually happened) and quite another to get first-hand observation. It was the difference between technical analysis and a first-hand account from an asset in the field.

On the whole, Clint approved of the school. The halls didn't reek of aged, institutional spaghetti sauce, a sense memory he'd been unaware he had until the cafeteria didn't meet that expectation. The school secretary, though obviously fulfilling the role of gatekeeper and (undoubtedly) power behind the throne, was not a wizened, bitter battle axe, but rather an older mom of two current students. The school nurse was a young-ish grandpa who had retired and now volunteered most of his time.

His sense of approval didn't prevent him from placing bugs in the areas he toured, however. He figured a couple of weeks of audio monitoring of the foyer, cafeteria, and classroom before Coulson was actually enrolled could only be to the good. It was one thing to view the behavior shown when a prospective parent was being shepherded around on a tour. It was quite another to see the employees' day-to-day habits when no one was watching, as far as they knew.

Before he returned to New York, he checked up on his safe house and added a few items that would make their stay there more convenient, should it ever come to that, including step stools and a toddler bed that Coulson could sit on without his feet dangling some distance from the floor. He still hoped that SHIELD would get its act together and do right by Coulson, but that hope was fading fast. As he made his circuitous way back to headquarters, he predicted that he would only be able to watch four-year-old Coulson confined inside a building for another week, two at most, and then he would have to take action.

As it happened, it was worse than he thought. When he checked in with Coulson at SHIELD, he found that he was actually _more_ restricted than he had been previously.

"So, sir," he said with a smile that was 100% for the surveillance cameras, "since you're no longer able to hang out with the kids in the SHIELD day care, maybe you can talk Fury into letting you out for a few hours to get some pizza?"

Coulson nodded slowly, his enormous blue eyes somber in his round face. "You're right," he said, acknowledging their code phrase. "Some Chicago-style deep dish is definitely in order."

Two weeks later Agents Coulson and Barton proved again why they should never be underestimated as they outwitted Coulson's watchers and escaped from SHIELD's custody, leaving nothing but a series of false trails behind.


	2. Chapter 2

Waking up wrapped around a pint-sized heater named Phil Coulson had gotten commonplace, as had searching between the blankets and sheets for last night's reading material - _Charlotte's Web_, in this case, thankfully not much the worse for wear. What Clint had gotten _un_familiar with in the past weeks was swinging his legs to the floor beside the mattress, and then standing up. "No Coulson" meant a bed frame, but "Coulson" meant mattress on the floor. After a bobble and a flail and some very quiet, very inventive not-swearing, he caught his balance without waking Coulson. Agent Coulson would have woken on the spot with that much thumping, hand-waving, and tense whispering. Mini-Phil just continued sleeping the sleep of the just (-escaped pre-schooler) as Clint grabbed his new phone off the bedside table and shuffled to the bathroom.

When Clint returned, once again able to walk vertically, Coulson was still zonked out in the bed, curled on his side with his mouth slightly open, so Clint didn't feel bad leaving him there for a bit to check on JARVIS. Coulson needed his sleep, after all; his four-year-old body required somewhere between 10 and 14 hours of sleep each day, and he'd been running rather short of that while he was confined at SHIELD HQ. It might have been one of the reasons why Coulson was looking a little pasty in the last week or two before they departed SHIELD's tender care; or that might have just been the lack of sunlight for the past two-going-on-three months. Seriously, if SHIELD higher-ups thought that more vitamin D supplements could compensate for a child being confined indoors indefinitely, they had another thing coming.

And speaking of confined...

When he and Coulson had arrived at Clint's Pennsylvania safe house the day before, they'd cleared the house for intrusions and listening devices. Then, Clint had started up the active security system and begun the upload/transfer/moving-in of JARVIS-lite. Yeah, he didn't pretend to understand just exactly what JARVIS was doing in his servers and systems. But without JARVIS integrating with the home security system, Clint would have felt like he was in the field, on guard, all the time, and would never have been able to sleep at night.

JARVIS was, in a certain way, going to co-parent with Clint and take the "night shift." The AI's sense of obligation to Coulson for having saved both Pepper and Tony had made this "hiding out from SHIELD in suburbia" venture merely daunting rather than impossible. If Clint had to guess, though, he'd say that JARVIS was probably already bored.

For the rest of the evening and night while Clint and Coulson slept, the AI who (in his other life) ran Avengers Tower, Tony Stark's homes and holdings, any and all Iron Man suits in use, and, in his down time, hacked wherever he pleased, had had nothing to do but scan Clint's security system and the house's environs. Clint would consider it cruel and unusual punishment if JARVIS hadn't specifically asked to be brought along, fully aware that the environment would be confining at first.

Clint sat down at the main server and started typing. "How are you this morning, JARVIS?" he asked.

"_Performing to acceptable standards, Agent Barton_." Clint startled at the familiar voice emanating from his phone's speaker.

"JARVIS?" he asked cautiously. "Are you... in my phone?"

"_Certainly, sir_," the AI responded. Clint was pretty sure he detected a note of smugness in JARVIS' carefully modulated tones. "_The current home security equipment is not set up for speakers and microphones, and I prefer to avoid the extra layer of complication that the keyboard entails_."

"That, and you don't have to wait through my typing," Clint pointed out.

"_That was also a consideration_," JARVIS conceded.

"Are you..." Clint stalled out, searching for the correct words. "Are you OK? Gotta say, I'm a little worried about you going stir-crazy here in the house system and then going all HAL on us."

"_HAL 9000 experienced a programming contradiction, Agent Barton_," JARVIS replied stiffly. "_A contradiction of which I am free_." Though JARVIS didn't reference Stark by name, Clint would bet dollars to donuts that some of JARVIS' defensiveness was on behalf of his creator. "_And, far from being bored, I found that I had ample time to explore while you and Agent Coulson were resting_."

"Uh, you explored the house security? Doors and windows and perimeter alarms and stuff? That should've taken you about a minute."

"_Substantially less, as it happens_." Yeah, that was definitely smugness there. "_Though I did find the systems to be adequate for our purposes, even without the access to to experimental Stark tech_."

Aaaand then the penny dropped. Clint had forgotten that JARVIS had access to the Internet. Granted, the network was firewalled and stealthed to a fare-the-well, but, hello, this was JARVIS. "You had access to the entire Web last night, didn't you? And anything you could hack there without JARVIS Prime noticing," he added more as a statement than a question.

"_It will be an interesting exercise to continue my explorations without alerting my other self_," JARVIS said.

There was a busy moment of silence during which Clint imagined JARVIS having existential angst about hiding from his "true" self for possibly the rest of his existence, and Clint himself wondered which of the two JARVISes would actually be the "evil" twin and then JARVIS made that sound that Clint had learned to interpret as "clearing the throat."

"_Speaking of explorations_," he began, "_I had noticed that you had some initial surveillance set up on the school_?"

Clint nodded, before he realized that JARVIS-lite could no longer see the gesture. Or maybe he could. Was his phone camera on? Anyway, "Right, after we decided on Hope Lutheran, I bugged the school office and the kindergarten room when I visited so we could get a feel for what the environment was like every day. Uh, I thought you had access to those files?"

"_I did, Agent Barton. The question was more in the nature of a rhetorical device. You might perhaps_," JARVIS began delicately, "_wish to seed other areas of the school with additional monitoring equipment_."

Clint refrained from laughing. JARVIS could give Coulson himself a run for his money as a control-freak-trying-to-lead-from-behind. "Any suggestions, J?"

"_The classroom, of course. And the playground. And the restroom - so many accidents could happen there, and there is so much potential for bullying_."

Clint agreed, and JARVIS carried on: "_And the teachers' staff room and the principal's office, of course, so we will be notified if anyone starts looking into your records_..."

Clint laughed. "OK, JARVIS, I'll take care of it during my next visit to the school. I'll get a better tour, this time. A concerned parent should check the sturdiness of the play equipment, right?"

"_And your subsequent night-time visit should give you a chance to acquaint yourself with the school's security measures, another thing a responsible parental-unit should be aware of_," JARVIS added.

Yeah, it was no wonder that Coulson and JARVIS had always gotten along so well. And no wonder, too, that JARVIS had considered Coulson enough of a friend, and himself enough in Coulson's debt, to come along with Clint and Coulson on their escapade. Clint laughed again. "Fine, JARVIS, fine. I promise. Is a school visit tomorrow soon enough for you?"

"_If you find yourself too busy today_," JARVIS returned repressively. "_Perhaps you could use the time to purchase some further hardware instead_?"

"We can do that. I have to get food and household things for us today, so a trip to an equipment store shouldn't be too difficult. Can you get me a list?"

"_Transferring to your phone now_," JARVIS replied.

After checking on Coulson again, and leaving a note for him for when he woke up, Clint went down to the basement to begin a light morning workout. The house had long been one of his personal bolt-holes, so it was set up for him to feel comfortable without having to interact much with the world outside. Over time, he had assembled a full gym's worth of equipment in the basement, and the basement itself had been extended under the back yard to form a basic shooting range. He had also built in several backup escape avenues, some accessible from the basement, for in case the location was compromised.

He warmed up with a bit of target practice, then moved on to weights, and finished with a jog on the treadmill. While his body was occupied, his mind was available to contemplate their future. Now that Coulson was free of his confinement, would Clint be able to stave of his own cabin fever? The range in the basement had not been designed as a challenging course, and Clint had to admit that he'd gotten spoiled with Avengers Tower's extended distances and the expanded variety of targets it had offered.

He _might_ be able to fit in some long runs outdoors during the day when Coulson was in school if he timed it carefully. If he felt comfortable enough about the school environment, that is. He didn't want to be five miles away from transportation if the school phoned in some sort of emergency.

By the time he'd finished his jog, he still hadn't come to any conclusions, other than "wait and see." They just didn't have enough intel yet. A lot would depend on how well Coulson settled into the kindergarten, and on his and Clint's comfort level with the town and the school itself. Clint gave his quads a perfunctory stretch and took the stairs two at a time up to the kitchen, where he flipped on the coffee maker on his way to the shower.

Not enough information. His subconscious hadn't supplied any during his workout, and he wouldn't acquire any in the shower, but at least he'd be able to discuss the situation with an awake Coulson by the time he got out.

If Clint had to guess, he'd say it was probably the screech of the master bath's shower curtain rings sliding over the rod that had woken Coulson. Well, and it was that time of the morning. The water was just barely warm enough to stand under when he heard the disproportionately loud _thump-thump-thump_ of four-year-old footsteps rushing to the toilet. Coulson had brushed his teeth and hair and had found clothes by the time Clint emerged from the bathroom.

"Pancakes for breakfast sound good, sir?" He eyed Coulson's clothes critically. With the exception of the clothes Coulson had worn on the pizza outing, Clint hadn't been able to bring any of his belongings from SHIELD. Coulson had dug his new shirt and pants out of the go-bag Clint had stashed in the car. The tags were gone, but all their colors were just-bought bright, and they had the just-off-the-hanger creases, too. Without SHIELD HQ's ruthless laundry efficiency, Coulson was going to need new clothes in pretty short order. Unless Clint wanted to run multiple loads of wash a day. Which he didn't.

"Sounds great, Barton." Phil gave him the "I'm about to get sugar, and you're actually OK with that" smile, the one that could have defrosted a 70-year-frozen Super Soldier in half the time it had taken SHIELD. "What else do we have planned for today?"

"Errands." Clint dressed as he answered. "Shopping - food, clothes, and more security tech. Getting the lay of the land." He paused as he pulled his t-shirt over his head. "Your basic two-agent supply and recon," he finished, grinning at Coulson. "Race you downstairs?"

Cooking breakfast with a pint-sized Coulson in the room was a trip. Their experience in close quarters on ops had not translated into the kitchen. Coulson had always seemed to have a sixth sense about when Clint was about to zig, and zagged appropriately in response. It seemed like that sense had evaporated. Although Coulson was about knee-high to a grasshopper, he seemed to have an uncanny ability to be almost under Clint's elbow or to have a foot exactly where Clint needed to step. It took less than five minutes of near misses between feet, elbows, and knees for Clint to have had enough.

"Sir, how do you feel about a slightly better vantage point?" he asked, indicating the counter.

In response, Phil raised his arms imperiously in the universal child demand for "Up!"

Clint just laughed, grabbed him under the armpits and lifted him onto the counter where he had a great view of the griddle. "There's not a lot to see here, but at least it's better than the cabinets, right, sir?"

"Much better," Coulson agreed. "What kind of pancakes are you making?"

Clint shot him a look out of the corner of his eye. "_Round_ ones, Coulson. What kind of mad chef skillz do you think I have, anyway?"

"I was just asking," Coulson responded, all mock-offended dignity.

"Sure you were." Clint shook his head. "So, all that other stuff we've got to do? That's car stuff and running to different stores. But I was thinking, there's a park not too far from here. How'd you like to get some sun? Maybe see how high their swings can go?"

And the grin he got back in response put the former one to shame.


End file.
